


Desperate Measures, Desperate Times

by akfedeau



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Conflict Resolution, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau/pseuds/akfedeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian discovers that the Inquisitor's brother has gone to drastic ends for his sister's love, they find each other at a crossroads of duty and compromise - and what they'll do for the people they consider family.</p><p>Done for marnaeileen on Tumblr, featuring her character Syris Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Measures, Desperate Times

"Syris?"

Dorian barged like a man possessed through the long, towering great hall, past mosaics and chairs and harried serving maids and nobles upon nobles, through threads of candle smoke and food smell and perfumes and pomades… but no elves.

“Syris?” He weaved in and out of the gossiping crowd. “Has anyone seen Syris?”

Just noise.

“Inquisitor Lavellan’s brother? Someone? Anywhere?” Someone elbowed him and rumpled his collar as he made his way through. “Elf? Short? Not the glowing hand, the other one? You can’t miss him!”

The courtiers under the curtain gave his shouting a disdainful sniff. Dorian sniffed at them back for good measure and plunged back into his search, by the Antivan emissary and a baffled Varric holding his manuscript - _have you seen Syris, Varric? I thought babysitting him was your job!_ \- before he let out a cranky huff and started up the library stairs. One. Two. Thirty-five, _oh, whatever._ His boots jangled and he lost count. And he swore to himself that if he got to the top without his knees falling off, he would make straight for the rookery and tell Leliana to get her crows on the job, because… because…

And before he could finish his thought he stumbled onto the dusty, empty library floor.

He peered around. No Fiona. No research mages. Even Helisma had left - and in Dorian’s old nook sat Syris, draped like wilted elfroot in his chair, lost in the leaded panes of the winter-gray window.

Oh.

“Syris?” Dorian called. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”

No response.

Dorian frowned. “Syris?”

Syris tucked his palm under his chin… and still he said nothing.

“Syris, are you…” Dorian took a cautious step closer… “are you quite feeling all right…”

And on _all right_ Syris finally looked away from the window.

Dorian gasped. The old faded-ink vines that curled down Syris’ temples and his chin, up his cheekbones, over his forehead - gone. Everything gone.

He faltered. The words caught on the way up.

“I.”

“Solas.” Syris leaned back toward the windowsill. “If that’s what you were going to ask.”

Dorian managed a whisper. “How?”

“Magic.” Syris avoided Dorian’s eyes. “Some kind I’d never seen before. He told me what the markings meant in the… time of the ancient elves, and he said he could undo it, and I just _saw red,_ I don’t know.” He pounded his knuckles against his jaw.

Dorian listened…

“It’s for my sister’s good. She loves him. I know it's what she'd want.” Syris simmered down. “I guess I’ll just… have to get used to it.”

Dorian chewed the inside of his mouth.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

 _“No!”_ Dorian tripped over himself to explain. “I’m just not used to it either, that’s all. It’s not a bad look, it’s handsome, really, lets your cheekbones speak for themselves…” he prodded his fingertips together… “it’s just…”

“Different?”

“Yes.” Dorian’s shoulders sank as he eased off his defenses. “Different.”

The candles flickered. The fog swirled outside. A floorboard creaked up in the rookery and one of Leliana’s birds flew down from the eaves, and came to roost on the wooden railing and fluffed its feathers up in the cold.

And Syris broke the stony silence.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What did you come to talk about?”

“Oh.” Dorian remembered. And felt awkward. “Um…”

“What?”

“Well, now that I think about it, maybe it’s not the best time.” Dorian shuffled his heel on the edge of the rug. “Then again, it’s… one of those things where there’s never… really a good time…”

Syris shoved himself off of the chair arm. _“What?!”_

He echoed up to the rafters. Dorian held his breath… and slowly sighed it out.

“I got some news from home.”

Syris waited for more.

“Things are bad. Not that they were ever good.” Dorian folded his hands in front of himself and fidgeted with the thumb of his glove. “This Venatori business has made things worse. They’re splintering all over the place.” He slouched lower and lower. “And I…”

Syris squinted…

“It’s a pittance I can do while I’m still here at Skyhold.”

Syris’ face fell.

“I should go back to Minrathous.” Dorian quieted down like it would soften it. “When all of this is done.”

Syris braced himself on the upholstery. “No.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t avoid it forever.”

Syris stood up. “Then I’ll go with you.”

“No!” Dorian blurted out. “We both know you can’t do that.”

“I’m a grown man, Dorian!” Syris lunged forward and jabbed his finger into Dorian’s robe. “I know what I can and can’t do.”

“A grown man tied to the only living family that he loves, tied to one of the most powerful political forces in the south!” Dorian wrenched away from Syris’ touch. “No.” He shook his head and turned away. “I’ve been awfully selfish. But I can’t pull you away from her.”

Syris seethed…

“Fine.”

Dorian scowled.

“Go on. Go home. Save Tevinter from itself.” Syris waved at the chilly air. “Be sure to tell the Imperial Senate all about your _elven love.”_

Dorian fumed with his fist on the bookshelf. “That’s below the belt, and you know it.”

The bird took flight again, and dropped a feather on its way out.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Dorian peeked over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Dorian, you _are_ my family.”

Dorian let his glove slide off the shelf. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” A sudden strength crept into Syris’ voice. “You didn’t have to befriend my sister. You didn’t have to like me for who I am. You didn’t have to reach past everything your country’s told you about elves, and try to understand me and make room in yourself for love.” His hands clenched and he faltered a little on _love._ “We’ve had our fights, but you’re _loyal,_ and under that pompousness you’re kind…” he hushed - “and you’re a better clan than the Lavellans were ever going to be.”

Dorian knit his eyebrows. “You don’t mean that.”

Syris shied away. “I’m no good with lies.”

Dorian’s expression melted like Syris had kicked him somewhere soft. He let it all sink in and felt a telltale burn crawl up his nose - and he swallowed his pride and held his arms out.

“What?”

“Come on.” Dorian sniffed. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

Syris hesitated - and bit his lip - and caved into Dorian’s chest. Dorian squeezed him hard and squished his cheek into the top of Syris’ hair - and savored the smell of his balm and the scratch of his shirt and the steady rhythm of his lungs and heart.

“I will think about it, amatus.”

“You will?”

“I’ll try.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've taken on someone else's OC, and it was sweet of marnaeileen to request Syris and Dorian's dynamic for me to experiment on. Thanks!


End file.
